Oneshot: Snowflakes

First frost.

Every snowflake is different, Lauren had told me, just this morning. So why do they all look the same? And so small

I reach out my hand from the warmth of the fur-lined pocket, hoping to catch one of these glimmering, lighter-than-air shards. They slip through my fingers, taunting me.

I must make a funny sight, alone, by myself, dressed in a red cardigan, reaching out towards nothing. But that’s to be expected – I’ve been reaching out towards nothing, as far back as I can remember.

Not just snowflakes.

They keep slipping through my fingers and I finally choose to take off my glove, and a cold shiver rushes through my forearm as my skin instantly turns brittle.

Something rustles behind me and I turn around, half-expecting to see a bear rushing out towards me from the deep, Northern woods.

Nothing. Just me and the trees. And the snow, of course. Knee-deep snow.

I’ve always found snow romantic. Perhaps it’s a side effect of the numerous Sandra Bullock movies that I’ve watched, but there’s definitely something to be said about standing by yourself, knee-deep inside a snowdrift, with pine cones littered about your feet and the distant hooting of an early-bird owl echoing somewhere above.

And the snowflakes. Of course.

They’re getting thicker. Now, I can actually feel them. They don’t slip through my fingers anymore, although at the rate my fingers are burning, they might get bitten with frost before I ever have a chance to catch a snowflake.

I mull that thought over and decide to put my gloves back on.

It’s for the best, after all.

Who needs snowflakes?

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